


Long Distance Communication

by Joodiff



Series: All Joodiff's Adult WtD Fic [22]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 10:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13878672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: In which Boyd and Grace find themselves horny and two hundred miles apart...Adult fic. Over 18s only, please.





	Long Distance Communication

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

* * *

**Long Distance Communication**

by Joodiff

* * *

“It can’t be _that_ bad,” Grace soothes, simultaneously amused and exasperated by the irascible note of complaint evident in her caller’s tone.

“It _is_ that bad,” he stubbornly contradicts, somehow managing to sound even more petulant. “These damn courses are all the same – three days of unmitigated tedium interspersed with cheap refreshments and bouts of inane squabbling and one-upmanship. It’s a pointless box-ticking exercise thought up by someone with no experience of real policing. A complete waste of fucking time.”

She’s heard increasingly irascible variations of the same thing so many times now that it’s difficult to sound even slightly sympathetic as she retorts, “Well, only two more days to go.”

“And,” Boyd adds, seeming to ignore her half-hearted attempt to appease him, “this sodding hotel is a complete shithole staffed by a bunch of incompetent – ”

“How was dinner?” Grace interrupts, before he can really get into his stride. She’s relaxed, comfortable and almost ready to sleep, and she really isn’t in the mood to listen to an extended tirade. Smirking to herself, she adds an innocent, “Did the Man-eater of Tyne and Wear attempt to have her wicked way with you again?”

“No, she did _not_ ,” is the brusque, irritable reply. “I made sure there were at least two DCIs and a Chief Super between her and me at all bloody times.”

She doubts he’s exaggerating. Much. DSI Helen Coleman, though a highly decorated and very successful senior police officer, has a colourful and somewhat… terrifying… reputation amongst her peers. And there’s no doubt in Grace’s mind that Peter Boyd rocketed to somewhere near the top of the other woman’s mental “to do” list several months ago after an effective combined operation to arrest the key members of a former gang of experienced armed robbers. Last time Helen was seen in the CCU’s subterranean lair, she rather resembled a hungry, prowling lioness stalking prey. Highly amusing for everyone apart from her intended victim, who had spent much of her brief visit skulking well out of harm’s way in the lab with a disgruntled and perplexed Felix, who had clearly found his unexpected presence an annoying and unnecessary irritation at best.

Of course, Grace would find the situation considerably _less_ funny if Helen’s overt and predatory interest was reciprocated, but since it isn’t – not even slightly – she’s not above teasing him about it now he’s stuck in Manchester in the same cheap hotel as his would-be paramour. Enjoying herself, she offers a helpful, “Do remember to lock the door before you go to bed, Boyd.”

“Haha,” he replies, and his tone couldn’t be any drier. “Very funny. I’m laughing my damn head off here.”

She can picture him. Quite clearly. Affronted, prickly and sullen. The square, bearded chin tilted just so; lips set in a perfectly-drawn sulky pout. It’s enough to make her grin again in the bedroom’s half-light. Trying to at least _sound_ deadpan, she adds, “Well, I suppose if the worst comes to the worst, you could put in an official complaint about sexual harassment.”

“Shut up, Grace.”

He’s so easy to rile, and she enjoys it _so_ much. Unrepentant, she adds, “Just trying to be helpful.”

“I don’t know why I bothered calling you,” Boyd growls. “In fact, I’m hanging up on you. Right now.”

He doesn’t. She knew he wouldn’t.

“Who else are you going to talk to at this time of night?” she inquires, casting a brief glance at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s gone eleven, and Spence will give you short shrift if you disturb _him_.”

“How’s he doing?” is the immediate and predictable reply.

Stopping short of sighing loudly, she says, “ _Fine_. Exactly the same as he _always_ does when you’re away. For heaven’s sake, Boyd, you’ve only been gone twenty-four hours.”

An unintelligible grumble is followed by, “Anyway, I’m already in bed.”

It takes her a moment to catch up. Gathering up a stray escaping corner of duvet, she says, “So am I. Door safely locked?”

“What do _you_ think? The whole place is crawling with coppers. Not bothering to lock it is simply _asking_ for trouble. I’d wake up to find I’d been robbed blind.”

Grace chuckles. “True enough, I suppose.”

“All tucked up in your pyjamas?”

Gazing thoughtfully down at her chest, covered by the old, warm, highly comfortable and distinctly non-erotic pyjamas in question, she is struck by a rare touch of malice generated solely by the smug edge to his voice. “No,” she tells him, “in that little black lacy number you somehow thought was an appropriate sort of gift to bestow on a colleague.”

Boyd does not audibly choke, but she can imagine the look on his face. Perfectly. The answer is unvarnished, straight-to-the-point, and raw in its sudden potency. “Damn, Grace… are you trying to get me hard?”

She doesn’t expect the way his unexpected response hits her low in the stomach. A solid, low-voltage shock that’s entirely physical and entirely beyond her control. Any intention she might have had to continue the humorous banter disappears in an instant, stripped away by a surprising, powerful surge of sudden excitement. Instead of a suitably arch and witty rejoinder, she only manages an evasive murmur that’s barely a conversational placeholder.

“Christ, woman,” he continues, either oblivious to her mental full stop, or not caring about it. “You really know how to pick your moments, don’t you? You wait until I’m two hundred bloody miles away, and then you tell me something like that!”

“Um,” Grace says, attempting to reassert some control over her disobedient, rioting imagination. She should disabuse him, she really should. But…

“Fuck,” Boyd complains, “how am I going to get to sleep now, with that bloody image stuck in my head?”

The words do nothing to encourage truthfulness. Quickly, before she can reconsider, Grace says, “Well, I was thinking about you, and…”

It’s not exactly a lie. She thinks about him a lot. More so since that unexpected late night not long after the Eddie Vine case when circumstances conspired to change things between them forever. Not a good night to dwell upon, she realises, just a little too late as another heated rush of involuntary arousal surges through her.

“Fuck,” he repeats, with rather less volume and considerably more fervour. “Grace…”

It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. That night, and the night after it. And on many nights since.

“You’re so bad for me,” she tells him, not sure if she’s teasing, or not.

“I know,” he agrees, voice dropping down into the seductive, dangerous realms of dark, intoxicating velvet, “and if I was there with you right now, I’d damn well prove it, too.”

She doesn’t doubt him for a second. Didn’t take her long to discover that he’s every bit as fiery and impulsive in his personal life as he so often is at work. Exhilarating, exciting, and yes, just a little tiny bit frightening at times. In the best possible way.

Though, she is not easily frightened. Never has been. “Talk’s cheap, Boyd.”

“You think I wouldn’t just pin you down and fuck you right now, if I was there?”

Even for him, it’s extraordinarily blunt. And, heaven help her, Grace likes it. In the heat of the moment, she really, really likes it. She’s aware she sounds unusually flustered as she retorts, “Oh, no. I know damn well you would.”

A conciliatory grunt is followed by a strained-sounding, “Well, this isn’t helping my situation at _all_.”

Swallowing against a throat that feels tight and dry, she asks, “Are you…?”

This is _not_ the sort of thing she does. Not that she’s prudish, but –

“As a rock,” he confirms, evidently not needing her to complete the question. A tight pause is followed by a harsh and clearly-frustrated. “Jesus, Grace. I need you.”

The same hefty, deep shock of arousal. Hungrier this time. Edgier. The intermittent fluttering in her stomach shifts lower, becomes an uncomfortable throb of very real desire. But he might as well be in Manchuria as Manchester for all the good he’ll be to her tonight. Damn, damn, _damn_.

 _For God’s sake, Foley,_ she scolds herself, _have some self-control. You’re not a sex-starved teenager, for heaven’s sake, and he’ll be back by the end of the week..._

“I need you, too,” she whispers, starkly refusing to entertain the threatening cringe of embarrassment.

“Close your eyes,” Boyd commands, only the silk-edged note of promise in his voice softening the order. “ _Close_ them, Grace.”

She doesn’t dance to his tune. Not _ever_. Made that quite clear when once became twice and twice became a bad habit she found she really didn’t want to break. But she closes her eyes anyway. Becomes aware that her breathing is quick and shallow, and that her pulse is speeding along in direct counterpoint. Without sight to distract her, it’s easier to form a vivid mental picture of him. The broad shoulders, the deep chest, slim hips and long legs. The way he looked, just a few mornings ago, padding across the bedroom fresh from the shower, suddenly distracted as he spotted her lounging comfortably on what’s tacitly become his side of the bed…

“If I was there,” Boyd’s voice says in her ear, breaking into her brief erotic reverie, “I’d kiss you. I’d kiss you until you were gasping for breath, and your lips were bruised.”

Maybe she moans, maybe she doesn’t. Grace really isn’t sure. The fingers of her free hand dig into a tight fistful of sheet. But she doesn’t open her eyes.

“I’d kiss your neck,” he continues, an audible huskiness to his voice, “bite you there, too. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” she admits. Why on earth would she risk exposing herself to him by openly admitting to such a thing? _Why?_ Why would she let this… ridiculous… conversation continue? It makes no sense. Except it does. Oh, of _course_ it bloody does. “Boyd…”

“I’d move down to your tits,” he says, and strangely, her mind doesn’t baulk at his unexpected vulgarity, “and then you’d feel it against your thigh, just how much I want you, how fucking turned on I am.”

Some abstract part of her mind registers his abrupt change of tense, but any vague intellectual curiosity about the phenomenon dies a quick and bloody death as the last vestiges of discomfiture disappear, and she offers a simple, whispered, “Yes.”

“Take it off,” he orders, autocratic now. “That little black number. Take it off.”

Her eyes snap open. Half-bridling, half-confused, she demands, “Why?”

“I want you to be naked.”

 _Ask a silly question,_ she thinks, just a touch wry. He’s always been so much more forthright than her. Half-heartedly wriggling up into a semi-seated position, she asks, “What about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

“Well, fair’s fair, Boyd.”

“Oh, I’m already naked,” he informs her, in what she can only describe as a self-satisfied purr. “As a newborn babe.”

She can picture it. Oh, yes. Weakly trying for humour, she suggests, “But considerably better endowed?”

“You really need reminding? Shall I measure it for you?” he inquires, more than a touch derisive. Then, “Just hurry up and lose the damned lace, will you?”

Grace doesn’t have the heart to shatter his illusions, so instead offers a defensive, “It’s cold in here.”

“I’ll warm you up.”

She shakes her head, very well aware that he can’t see her. “You’re in Manchester.”

A quiet snort. “So? Tell me you’re not feeling just a little bit hot under the collar already?”

He has a point. Bits of her are very warm indeed. But still…

“All right,” she acquiesces, after an appropriate pause. “I’ll have to put the phone down for a moment, though.”

He’s not a patient man. “Just get on with it, woman.”

It’s ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous. Temptation and embarrassment pull fiercely in opposite directions, paralysing her for a few brief moments. In the end, she does nothing. Let him enjoy his fantasy, she decides. What’s the harm?

Still warmly pyjama-clad, she settles again, picks up the discarded phone. “Now what?”

“Have you taken it off?”

“Yes,” she lies without compunction.

“I can see you,” Boyd says, the hoarse note back in his voice. “You’re lying there with that damned infuriating look on your face, and I don’t know whether to yell at you or kiss you. Your nipples are standing up in hard little points, and when I touch them, you shiver.”

He’s remembering, she realises, her cheeks burning. Memory and fantasy forming an entrancing kaleidoscopic swirl in his head, taking him further and further into some sensual, hedonistic interior world. It’s fascinating. Addictive, too, despite how part of her is still struggling against what’s happening. “Yes,” she says again, and then, bolder, “I reach out to touch you, and your skin… it’s so hot and so, so smooth.”

Her reward is a throaty, masculine noise somewhere between a low growl and a moan. It’s more than enough to superheat her blood again, to renew the deep ache of arousal and encourage the far from unpleasant tingling between her thighs.

“You’re so hard already,” she continues, throwing caution to the wind, “and when I stroke your cock – ”

“ _Fuck_ …”

“ – I can feel your heartbeat there.”

“Grace…”

“Touch it,” she demands, not caring if the order is completely redundant. “Feel how hard you are.”

A guttural grunt is the only reply she gets. That, and the heavy, accelerating sound of his breathing. Closing her eyes again, she allows her mind to conjure exciting visions for her. Him, kneeling before her on the bed, his stiff, rearing shaft both challenging and enticing her. She can almost feel the animal heat of him, almost smell the rapidly intensifying musk clinging to him. Her pulse is racing again, and her free hand strays of its own accord to her torso, rests lightly, restlessly on the soft jersey material covering her ribcage.

“You, too,” he commands. “Tell me what _you_ can feel, Grace.”

Again, her hand seems to move of its own volition, moving straight to her breast and briefly cupping the generous mound of flesh before squeezing gently. Her nipple feels like a hard little pebble under her palm, and rubbing it sends a fierce jolt of pleasure straight to her groin. Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she says, “I can feel your hand on my breast. You’re squeezing it. You’re firm, but you’re not rough. I can’t help pressing myself against you, and it feels so incredibly good… your bare skin on mine. I’m still stroking your cock, and I know you’re desperate for me to go down on you. But you won’t say it. Damn you, Peter, you _never_ say it.”

“Suck me,” he growls straight into her ear, his voice harsher and tighter than she’s ever heard it. “Christ, Grace, _suck me_.”

If he was there… But he’s not. Rubbing her thumb rapidly over her nipple, she whispers, “The taste of you… it’s salt and sweat and sex, and, God, I can’t get enough of it. You’re lying on your back now, completely at my mercy, and you’re moaning… your eyes are shut and you’re moaning.”

“Oh, God.”

Carried away by her own fantasy, she continues, “I want to take all of you in my mouth, but I can’t – you’re too big…”

She hears his breathing hitch. “Jesus, Grace…”

“I could make you come in an instant,” she rasps, “if I wanted to.”

His breathing is ragged in her ear. “I’m so fucking close. Your mouth, your tongue…”

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, and, Christ, she means it. More than anything ever before.

“Touch yourself. Touch yourself _there_.” It’s harsh, it’s raw, full of lust and desperation. “Do it. Feel how wet you are for me.”

Lost in their unplanned, carnal game, Grace doesn’t hesitate. Works her hand rapidly under the elasticated waistband of the thin, floral-patterned pyjama trousers to reach between her thighs, something that hasn’t been a regular habit for more years than she cares to think about. Feels good. So, _so_ good. But not as good as it feels when it’s _his_ fingers gently, knowledgably exploring, _his_ fingers dipping lower. “Peter…”

“I have to taste you,” Boyd growls, “I _need_ to taste you, and Christ, when I do it’s so fucking addictive I want to stay between your thighs forever. I want to lick you and kiss you, put my fingers inside you and feel you start to shake.”

Her fingers have found their own quick rhythm, familiar and exciting. Her heart is pounding, and her voice sounds rough and raspy as she repeats, “ _Peter_ …”

“I’m so close to coming,” he says, “and damn you, you know it. Your eyes, they’re so wild as you beg me to keep going, not to stop, but Christ, if I don’t get inside you soon…”

“I pull you up to kiss you,” she responds, “and I can taste myself on your lips…”

“ _Fuck_ …”

So close. _So_. _Close_. “Then you slam yourself into me, and it’s pleasure and pain, and I can’t stop myself from screaming your name. You tell me I’m going to take every single inch of you, and I do. You fill me up, and I dig my fingernails into your back… but you don’t seem to feel it at all as you pound me…”

“You’re nearly there,” he tells her, his breathing quick and hard. “I can feel it. You’re so fucking wet, and so damned tight, and just when I know I won’t be able to hold on for more than a few seconds more, you start to come… You’re shaking and crying out, Grace, and your body is squeezing around me, and I’m completely bloody helpless… incapable of stopping…”

She’s there. _Fuck_ …

Pleasure rips through her in shuddering, overpowering waves, obliterating everything, even the sound of his voice. It’s intense, primitive. Wonderful. So, so needed. Then, as the strong internal contractions start to ebb away, and her limbs start to relax, she hears a deep grunt, a staccato, choked-off, “ _Grace_ …”

She knows his head will be back, knows his eyes will be tightly shut, his lips parted. Knows his back will be arched, that there will be a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. Knows exactly what he will look like as he, too, hits that shattering peak and lets himself be mastered by it. A loud, ragged exhalation that’s almost but not quite a moan is followed by the sound of deep, heavy breaths that gradually slow and even out. Unconsciously, her breathing pattern synchronises with his as the world slowly and steadily begins to become a rational place once again.

“You okay, Grace?” he finally manages. “Grace?”

“Still here,” she confirms, reluctantly opening her eyes and letting go of the pleasant drifting. “Feeling less… irritable… now?”

He’s still a little more breathless than she is. “God, yes… For the moment, at least. Hang on a moment…”

Intrigued, and mildly confused by distant scuffling noises, she frowns, inquires, “What are you doing?”

“Clean-up operation,” he informs her.

She shouldn’t have asked. Really, she shouldn’t. “Thanks for sharing that, Boyd.”

“You asked.”

“It wouldn’t have killed you to lie,” she complains.

“What, like you did, you mean? Black lace, my arse.”

How the _hell_ did he know? How?!

“I told you,” she says, moving her body slightly to acquire more of the duvet, “it’s cold here. And if you knew, why…?”

“I was enjoying the fantasy,” is the unashamed reply. “Seeing you dressed like that… it does things for me.”

“I had noticed.”

“Complaining?”

“No,” she admits, stretching and relaxing into an even more comfortable position. Sleepy and tranquil, it’s difficult to summon the energy and mental acuity required to carry on bantering with him.

“Grace…?”

“Sorry,” she says, pulling herself out of a half-doze. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Nothing,” he tells her, his voice sounding surprisingly soft and indulgent. “Just three little words. Nothing important.”

“Tease,” she accuses, but without any real ire.

“Said the woman who told me she was wearing – ”

“All right, all right. Point taken.” Allowing a slight smile to herself, she adds, “Though, don’t you think it was worth it?”

“Most definitely,” Boyd agrees, “but when I get back on Friday I may feel the need to – ”

“I’m going to sleep now,” Grace announces, before he can go into detail, “and so should you. You’ll need your wits about you tomorrow to keep one step ahead of Helen. I won’t be pleased if you accidentally blunder into her clutches.”

“I suspect that’s something of an understatement.”

“You suspect right, Detective Superintendent. Are you going to call me tomorrow night? Say, at bedtime?”

“Do you want me to?” Just a hint of something sly in his tone.

“Yes,” she says, looking up at the shadowy ceiling, “I rather think I do…”

_\- the end -_

**Author's Note:**

> Partly inspired by the line "Are you trying to get me hard?" delivered by Morgan Ives in _Strike Back: Retribution_.


End file.
